


First-Basin' It With Madness

by Wasuremono



Category: Homestar Runner
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Gore, Pseudo-Lovecraftian Quasi-Horror, Teen Girl Squad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Teen Girl Squad's high-school reunion is coming up, and So and So isn't going to waste her second chance with Brett Bretterson, no matter the collateral damage. There's a lot of collateral damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First-Basin' It With Madness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regonym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regonym/gifts).



> Please note the "Canon-Typical Violence" tag on this story! I've done everything I can to keep this story in the tone of canon Teen Girl Squad episodes, so the violence isn't grimdark or permanent (and the romance isn't schmoopy), but it's still Teen Girl Squad, so steer clear if this sort of content makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one! I spent so much time "researching" on the HR Wiki and watching videos, and it was fantastic. Thanks for helping me rediscover HR for myself, Regonym, and happy holidays!

It was finally happening. After so many years, So and So had a second chance with Brett Bretterson.

So and So normally prided herself on her careful driving, but that night, it was so hard not to glance over to her smartphone sitting on the passenger seat of her subcompact (so fuel-efficient and sensible!). On that smartphone's display was her social media timewalltagline, and on that timewalltagline was the news: Brett Bretterson, RSVP'ing to their high school reunion at last. Now it was her job to _respondez, s'il vous plait_ \-- to him! At the reunion! (Not with a private message beforehand or anything. She didn't want to look _too_ stalker-y, just _the right level_ of stalker-y.) 

It was hard to recall now just why she'd broken things off with Brett in the first place. Was it the Spirit Pit incident? No, it was later than that, and that wasn't even his fault anyway. It was something about a study session, a mistake she'd made, an argument? The details had faded away, but surely he'd forgiven her for it by now, a decade after they'd graduated. Brett wasn't the kind of guy to hold grudges.

She was going to have to turn on the charm, though. It was time to call Cheerleader.

Her mind on autopilot, So and So pulled into her apartment complex, parked in her usual space (a little close to her next-door neighbor's Vespa, but it was a _Vespa,_ so who really cared?) and dashed up the stairs to her third-floor walkup, phone in hand. By the time she slumped down on the couch, the text was already composed:

_Hey CL! What're you doing this weekend?_

It took a long few minutes to receive the reply _hey gurly wurly,_ followed quickly by _n2m, u?_

 _I wanna go out shopping for the REUNION!,_ So and So tapped back. _Brett's gonna be there!_

This response was quicker: _cmon sas we talked about this like a billion times brett bretterson isn't even real_

Before she could begin her counterargument, So and So decided it just wasn't worth it this time. She'd see how real Brett was at the reunion. _Oh, whatever,_ she fired back. _Don't you wanna look soo-oo-ooo good?_

Cheerleader's response came quickly enough that So and So could only assume she'd had it readied for this moment. _SOOOOOOOO GOOD!!!_

Yes. Perfect. So and So allowed herself to relax and pet Mr. Kittywiggles, who had crawled into her lap and begun his usual grunt-purring to welcome her home. It didn't matter what XC thought about Brett; she wouldn't let her go to the reunion anything but stylin'. She was home free.

Of course, she'd need a big enough purse to carry all her supplies in...

* * *

The high-school gym looked just like Cheerleader had left it, she thought... nah, on second thought, it was just a little crappier. Maybe it was the scuff marks on the floor, or the fading on the TRI-STATE CHAMPIONS '85 banner that still hung alone from a rafter, or maybe it was the sneaking suspicion that they still kept that creepy old gym teacher in the ball-storage closet? Whatever. She had the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect makeup. Tonight, magic was gonna happen. 

Cheerleader glanced at her wingwoman, who seemed entranced by every little detail, from the garlands of dorm-style white Christmas lights to the paper WELCOME BACK GROWLBACKS! banner hung over the stage. Honestly, she was a little... worried about So and So. She hadn't talked about Brett Bretterson in, like, years, and even with full guidance and advice from her _expert_ best friend, she'd ended up in a weird red cocktail dress and lugging a black messenger bag. Black was the new black again, but that didn't make the nerd look fashion-forward! "Hey, Earth to riot grrl," she said, giving So and So a friendly nudge on the shoulder. "Let's go get drunk and convince some football guys they missed their chance, huh?"

"Nah, I'm not ready for drinks. I gotta find Brett first. I bet he's out in the halls finding our old make-out spot or something..."

"Gross," said Cheerleader, and meant it in about five different ways. "C'mon, we can be a squad again! I mean, we've got Cheerleader, pretty in pink! So and So, the femme fatale in red! What's Her Face, uh..."

"Pretty sure What's Her Face isn't gonna show. She didn't RSVP or anything."

"Well, whatever, she'd probably just show off some guy from grad school. And --" Cheerleader pointed towards the buffet table and the figure in the line bearing a familiar and, um, avant-garde head of curls. "The Ugly One! Captivating in... oh, is that chartreuse? Definitely chartreuse."

The Ugly One looked up, all smiles (and teeth. Oh, the teeth). "Hey girls! Great to see you! Hold on juuust a sec, I gotta finish social media-in' all this food! I'm sort of a big deal on Snaxogram." Eyes narrowing behind her thick glasses, she shot a rapid-fire barrage of photos, all of food Cheerleader couldn't even make out at that distance. "Cropped and filtered and massaged and uploaded! Okay, girls, here I come! Get ready to catch me up on EV-E-RY-TH--" 

The Ugly One was halfway between the buffet table and the remainder of the squad when the first giant, disembodied thumbs-up materialized in the air and dropped straight onto her with a resounding **_LIKE'D!_** \-- and then there was another, and another, and another, until any trace of curly hair or chartreuse dress was lost in an avalanche of solidified praise. Underneath, the Ugly One's voice was weak. "... ow! My alerts page!"

Cheerleader had to remind herself that this was probably inevitable. Sure, after they'd graduated, the rates of... that kind of stuff... had gone way down, but sometimes, stuff just happened, right? And, without What's Her Face here to take the fall, at least it had been Ugly One first. She still had plenty of time to get So and So hooked up with a real boy and herself fully sated with sweet, sweet reunion cred. First, though, a drink was required.

After a concerned glance to make sure So and So was still with her, and with reality, Cheerleader made her way towards the bar. It took a few minutes of scrutiny of the dubiously-spelled menu (did they _have_ to use the old concession-stand menu board where half the vowels were gone?) to decide on a Cran-Apple-Goji-Raspberry Zingertini. The drink came quickly, and Cheerleader closed her eyes to appreciate the sheer redness of the flavor. "Aww, yeah. Reminds me of that weird off-brand Kool-Aid What's Her Face's mom used to make. You remember that stuff, So and So?" After a few beats of silence, Cheerleader cracked an eye open. "... So and So?"

Gone. She was nowhere in the rather sparse crowd that Cheerleader could see: not dancing to the squonky solo-ska sounds of Fatty's Big Chance, not chatting up the scattered wallflowers or the angry knot of Gregs near the door, not even investigating the wreckage of the Ugly One's social media career. In the two seconds Cheerleader had had her out of sight, she'd gone chasing Brett.

Fantastic! Her bestie was officially off the rails. This was freakin' great. Time for another zingertini.

* * *

So and So felt the presence of Brett in her bones even before she saw him. He leaned on her old locker, face radiant and smile wide, and any lingering concerns she had evaporated in the light of his eyes. "Hey, baby," he said. "Thought I'd meet you here."

"Brett! It's so amazing to see you. Just, just so amazing. I brought some things I thought you might like: our old yearbook, that pen you gave me in math class, some ink refills for it..."

"You always did think of me, Sosie." A broader smile; teeth as white as sunrise in Heaven. "But there's something need you to do..."

"I know, sweetie. I'm ready." So and So knelt down and flipped her bag open to take out the yearbook. She flipped to the center, to the "Senior Achievements" spread full of lesser Growlbacks where Brett should have been, and began to draw the invocation circle and the runes. The words to the invocation came without conscious thought, the legacy of hours of practice: "Brett Bretterson, scion and lord of the Open-Mouthed Host, I who once renounced you welcome you again to my world. What was once Splitsville will now never be sundered; let all the world know that we are official, and let the world tremble before your true hotness..."

* * *

"Oh, hey, is that you? Jenny Cheerleadrinski?"

The face of the guy next to Cheerleader at the bar wasn't immediately familiar, but he was decent-looking enough that she figured a little conversation wouldn't hurt. After all, she still had to salvate the evening, right? "Yeah, that's me," she replied. "Just call me Cheerleader, okay? You're, uh... oh, crap, tip of my tongue..."

"Greg," the guy replied. "... you know, Regular Greg. Not, like, the main four Gregs."

"Oh, so not a total loser, then?"

"I dunno about that," said Regular Greg with a nervous half-laugh. "My ex-wife keeps telling me 'Greg, you gotta get out more. You gotta stop spending Saturday nights with your old mascot suit and a bottle of bourbon,' but some days it feels like only Ol' Growly really understands me, you know?"

"Okay, that's kinda gross," admitted Cheerleader. "But c'mon, look at those guys! D n' D Greg and Sci-Fi Greg still even have the same haircuts as high school! And does Japanese Culture Greg have pinkeye?"

"He says it's a cybereye, but you can't see the cyber parts because of his mask. He's calling himself the Red Meteor of Judgment."

"Oh my God, SERIOUSLY?" 

"Do I look like a guy who could make that up?"

Cheerleader took another drag of her Zingertini and concluded that, no, Regular Greg didn't look like a guy who could make that up. He didn't look like a guy who could make up much of anything, really. "That's so crazy. And... uh, are we _sure_ that's Open Source Greg? He looks kinda, uh..."

"Oh, yeah, that's him. Calls himself Disruption Greg now. All he talks about is how he's drinking Tekkno-Gruel three meals a day and saving himself so much time and effort. I mean, he has lost weight, I guess..."

Cheerleader had to admit that; "Disruption Greg"'s sallow skin was clinging to his cheekbones, where a few wispy chunks of beard continued trying to grow. Somehow, his acne had only gotten worse. "Yeah, I guess, but he looks like a freakin' goblin now! Shouldn't D n' D Greg be stabbing him with a sword with a naked lady on it or something?"

"Ha! Yeah, probably. I bet he has like five naked lady swords at home. Y'know," said Regular Greg, pausing to drink, "back in high school, I used to think you were just a mean girl, but now I'm thinking you're a _funny_ mean girl!"

"You really think so? It's a secret but, uh, I actually try really hard." Cheerleader could feel a smile threatening to erupt onto her face; it was long past time to play it cool. "So, uh, Regular Greg. You're really kinda not gross on the balance, and, uh, my wingwoman is off having imaginary makeouts with some imaginary dude, and my only other friend from high school is probably dead, so... you wanna get out of here for a few drinks or something?? Go somewhere Fatty's Big Chance isn't playing? Seriously, I don't even know how that guy won all those Grammys."

"I dunno, I kind of like that guy. I have his third album in the car."

"Well, whatevs. You know what I mean, though, right?" 

"Yeah, yeah. That sounds great. Uh, I'm staying in the Motel 12 down the street, and they have a really good bar for a motel -- like, I was seriously surprised -- so, uh, if that'd work?"

"Wait, you don't live in town anymore? That makes you the most interesting person here! Let's get out of here, Arr-Gee. ... uh, wait, can you drive?"

"Yeah, probably," said Regular Greg, getting up from the barstool just stably enough to suggest he was right. "Let's go before that changes --" 

Before Cheerleader could stand up to join him, the gym's double doors burst open, spilling a chilly grey light onto the dance floor. So and So stood in the doorway, and next to her was -- oh, God, Cheerleader couldn't even look straight at him without a sharp pain in her eyes. She could just make out the vague shapes of a face -- an open mouth --

And then she knew. Brett Bretterson had never been imaginary. He'd just been hiding, and now he was ready to be seen.

"Oh, Brett," cooed So and So, "they're all looking at us!" They were, too; Cheerleader's frantic attempts to keep her eyes averted made her realize that the dancing, chatter, and drinking had stopped. So and So'd stopped the party; her cred was off the charts now, and Cheerleader knew she didn't have the will to wield that power properly. Reunion cred was dangerous, and So and So was drunk with it!

So and So whispered something to her glowing escort, and Brett laughed and replied in a booming, clanging language Cheerleader couldn't even begin to understand. He gestured towards the round card tables just off the dance floor, and they erupted into splintering shockwaves; the stupefied reunion-goers seated there were slammed into the wall or floor with a loud, crunchy **_TABLEFLIP'D!_** The crowd stirred a bit, starting towards the doors, but Brett only advanced. More phantoms began to materialize in the air around the gym: middle-aged men with gaping open mouths and mouthfuls of batteries, arrows, machine guns... 

"Wow," said Regular Greg, voice low. "I always thought So and So was the nice one. Guess not, huh?"

"You don't even know how crazy that girl is," Cheerleader replied. "Well, now you know, I guess -- wait, what the heck is that?" There was a whistling sound audible even above the screams, zaps, and **_ARROW'D!_** s, growing closer, and soon its source was obvious: a room-height, viciously fast tornado of blood and bone, showing only occasional glimpses of the faces of Gregs. Somehow, Cheerleader could still hear voices from inside: agonized cries of "my hit dice!," "Twister wasn't even real sci-fi!," ""shi no arashiiiiii! Kiai!," and "crowd-sharing death weather is a serious killer app, you guys!"

There wasn't any time to dodge. There wasn't even any point. Cheerleader reached for Regular Greg's hand, he grabbed hold, and together they were sucked into the center of the storm.

**_GREG TORNADO'D!_ **

The last thing Cheerleader saw before her world narrowed to bloody slurry was So and So floating towards, and then through, the ceiing, held tight in the arms of Brett Bretterson. She'd ascended, at last, into the Mindy-level Cred Pantheon. For a moment, the pain of the wind and the burning blood faded away, and all Cheerleader could be was jealous.

* * *

When the sounds of the chaos finally died down, the Ugly One pushed the last of the Likes off of herself and stood up. Once she'd taken in the grodiness (pretty bad, but she'd seen worse), the first thing she noticed was the figure silhouetted in the ruined double doors. Those broad shoulders... could it be? "Quarterman, is that you?"

He looked up, stepping over a pool of blood and into the gym proper. "The Ugly One! What happened in here?"

"I dunno! I was buried alive, or maybe dead, for most of it."

"That's fair," said Quarterman, who was soon by her side. "Hey, hold on a sec..." With a slight tug, he gently removed a final, tiny thumbs-up from her scalp. "There. Does that feel better?"

"Oh, thank you! I didn't even notice..."

"It's all right. It's amazing what you don't notice sometimes, like when you have a football scholarship from Decent Tri-State University and don't realize just what you're leaving behind, because she's becoming her dad's electro-pawn apprentice. Now what was in front of me is in front of me again. Ugly One, can you forgive me?"

"Oh, I could never stay mad at you, Quarterman! I still have my old DTSU sweatshirt, y'know. The one with the Fightin' Copper Hog?"

"Ol' Horatio? That's a good shirt! You always did have great taste."

"Why, thank you," replied the Ugly One. "Um, so... Fatty's still playing, so d'you want to dance? I think the stage is pretty un-gunky!" She gestured up towards the stage, the last expanse of really clean floor in the place, where Fatty's Big Chance played on valiantly. 

Quarterman looked towards the stage and smiled. "He's got real dedication to his craft. That's how he won all those Grammys, you know." He took the Ugly One's hands and led her up onto the stage. At the sound of their footsteps drawing closer, Fatty paused his playing and slid his sunglasses down to look at them. 

"Hey, an audience again. You guys ready to PICK IT UP PICK IT UP PICK IT UP PICK IT UP!?"

They were, and they did.

****

##  **IT'S OVER!**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****

  
Bleary-eyed after a long Saturday night in the library, What's Her Face sat up in bed and began scrolling down her timewalltagline. God, she was glad she hadn't gone to her stupid high-school reunion. I mean, the thesis meant she didn't have the time anyway, let alone the money to buy a plane ticket, but it wasn't like she'd wanted to go in the first place, and now socia media was reminding her how right she was. Every post was the same old drama: who'd made out with whom, who'd gotten drunk and puked all over the bleachers, who'd gotten gutted like a sheep and covered whose rental tux in bile... it was all just so _old,_ and she was so over it. Besides, she wasn't sure what would have been worse: Cheerleader treating her like she always had, or Cheerleader deciding they were super-great friends and had to go shopping together and catch up. _Barf._

Okay, so So and So's imaginary first-grade boyfriend being an angel of death or something was a little interesting, but mostly it meant that the badly-filtered cell phone photos she had to scroll through were mostly red. What's Her Face scrolled past at least two Gregs complaining about being tornado-zoned, a brag-selfie from another Greg of himself and Cheerleader on some kind of ratty fur rug, a status from the Ugly One... wait a sec, what had that been? She scrolled back up to re-read the status, feeling a cold dread settle into her spine:

**Joy Ugly One is now engaged to Max Quarterman.**

What's Her Face had been dodging the "New Messages (1)" at the top of her screen all morning, fully expecting another long single-paragraph whine from Sci-Fi Greg, but now she knew what was there was worse. She braced herself, opened it, and found what she feared: a long single-paragraph gush with a terrible question at the end. What's Her Face hauled herself out of bed, threw a bathrobe on, and headed for the living room. "Hey, Some Guy? Are we doing something this June? Tell me we're doing something."

Some Guy From Grad School poked his head out of the kitchen doorway. "Oh, hey! I was about to go ask you if you wanted turkey bacon or pig bacon. Anyway, I don't think we're doing anything for the summer... what's up?"

"One of my friends from high school is getting married. She wants me to be a _bridesmaid._ I'm gonna have to wear one of those... long... oh, what are they called?"

"Dresses?"

"Yeah," said What's Her Face, the dread migrating rapidly to her stomach and pooling there. "One of those. She's thinking chartreuse."

"What? Oh, honey, no..."

"I know, right? Make me like five slices of pig bacon and a screwdriver. It's gonna be a long day."


End file.
